


Half Three

by darlingred1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fingerfucking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingred1/pseuds/darlingred1
Summary: “I wish there were two of you,” Sherlock says.





	Half Three

Sherlock at half three in the morning, sleepy and inexplicably turned-on, is one of John’s favourite Sherlocks.

“I wish there were two of you,” Sherlock says. He’s murmuring into his pillow, lying on his stomach with one arm thrust back and tenting the sheet on top of him as he fingers himself. His hips roll in a languid, decadent rhythm that makes the mattress sway—a movement so familiar and inviting that it would probably rouse John from even the deepest of sleeps.

“Yeah?” John says, still groggy but no less keen for it.

He scoots closer, reaching under the covers for Sherlock, and lays his palm on Sherlock’s arse cheek. Feels it dimple and flex as Sherlock’s hips continue their lazy pumping, then he follows the plump curve downwards until his fingertips meet Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock slips his own fingers free immediately, allowing John’s to take their place.

His arsehole is loose but not especially slick. He’s stretched himself with spit, probably—spit that’s since dried and not been refreshed. So John takes care not to thrust. He just fits two fingers into Sherlock’s hot hole and lets Sherlock spasm around them, clench around them, swivel his hips and relish the stretch of them.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock moans. Both arms free, he draws himself to John’s side, burying his face in John’s shoulder and mouthing wetly at the skin there. “Yes.”

“And what would two of me do to you?”

A brief pause—John removing his fingers long enough to shove them into his mouth and drool on them, soaking them with saliva, and then he slots them back into Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock whines at the loss and wails at being filled again. John grants him a long moment to savour the sensation, to roll his hips with renewed urgency as John’s fingers slide easily in and out of his hole.

Then John prompts, “Well?”

Sherlock moans, short but deep. “Fuck me, both ends. Use my mouth until—uhn. Jaw, it…mm.”

“Yeah?” With his free hand, John strokes Sherlock’s hair and smiles at Sherlock’s cry, how he pushes his head into John’s touch. Sherlock at half three in the morning is sensitive, responsive, as simple and unguarded as John has ever seen him. “What else?”

“You make me fuck you,” Sherlock says, still mouthing at John’s shoulder. “While you fuck me from behind. You…mmh. Talk about me, over me. Like I’m not even there.”

“Oh yeah. I imagine we’d have a lot to talk about.” The spit is drying up again, so John’s fingers stop sliding. He keeps them there, stuffed as deep as possible, while Sherlock rocks back onto his knuckles like he could take John’s whole hand if he tries hard enough. “How perfect you are, for one.”

Sherlock cries out again, a lovely blissful sound.

John kisses his forehead. “Made for us. Our little plaything. Giving me your hard cock when I want it and your tight arse when I need it. Begging for the pleasure.”

“Please,” Sherlock says, which makes John’s cock throb. For all that Sherlock claims to abhor begging, he does it so well.

“Just like that,” John says, still stroking Sherlock’s hair, giving it a tug every now and then. “And we’ll talk about the sounds you make, won’t we? Our favourites. Trying to get you to make them. Telling you how gorgeous you are when you’re trapped between us, moaning like the shameless tart you are.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock groans, his back arching, nudging his cock into John’s hip.

Another movement that John knows well. With one final tug, he abandons Sherlock’s hair, spits into his palm, and closes his fingers around Sherlock’s dick. It’s not terribly comfortable, stroking Sherlock’s cock while he keeps Sherlock’s hole filled, but it’s bearable. And it won’t last much longer, anyway.

“Greedy,” John growls. “Your greedy hole and your greedy cock. You need everything we give you. You’ll probably come in me before we’ve even finished, and then you’ll be getting fucked with two cocks because your needy, slutty little arse—”

Sherlock comes then, and John shuts up immediately so he can listen to Sherlock’s soft sobbing wails as he thrusts between John’s grip and fingers with neither grace nor modesty, so far from the man who still turns his coat collar up to look cool and ducks his head in public so no one can see him smile.

He still hasn’t quieted completely by the time he shoves John away and flips over, reaches behind with both hands, and spreads his arse cheeks. And although part of John aches to push his dick into Sherlock’s hole as far as it will go, to fuck Sherlock so hard that Sherlock will limp for weeks, he only presses the tip gently to the loosened ring of muscle—feeling it give just slightly, temptingly—as he wanks himself furiously until he’s shooting come up and down Sherlock’s crack.

By that point, Sherlock is already half-asleep again, his grip on his arse cheeks slackened and his mouth open, drooling on his pillow—leaving John, as always to clean up the mess.

_And this_ , John thinks, _is one of your favourite Sherlocks._

He’s smiling, though, as he stretches to kiss Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock’s curls tickle his nose, and somehow that makes him smile wider. “Lazy bastard,” he murmurs. “Good night, love.”

 

 


End file.
